King Of The Northlands
by Caporal
Summary: The Fellowship had many adventures on their journey. Here is the story of one such exploit. Strictly within canon, I hope. Please read and review, I want to know what you think of it.


A/N I wrote this for English class some months ago. I just found it again while cleaning out some old files. Just to be on the safe side, PG for some violence. Please review and tell me what you think of it. I don't care if you flame the thing, I just want to know that people are reading my work.  
  
The King  
  
The Messenger had finally arrived. We were exultant. The Master had need of us! At last we could get our revenge! The Messenger would have stricken fear into the hearts of any lesser child of the earth, but we stood before him proud and unafraid. For we are the children of the greatest of the Powers, whom the other Guardians exiled in their jealousy. We are the mightiest of the Wolves,   
decendants of the Red Maw himself, and I am our King.  
  
After the Messenger had left, I adressed our people. There were hundreds, --thousands-- of us assembled. They came because I had called us to this place.   
  
"Our time has come" I began "The Master has need of us, for since the fall of the Dragon, much has been lost to the Westerners and the Elders, as we have not been able to reveal ourselves and attack them openly.  
  
'But now we can. We can avenge those fallen to the West-men, and perhaps even drive them from the North forever. For now the Master will be behind us, and we can fulfill the designs of the Great one who is gone from the World.   
The Master wishes to deploy us throughout the North, from the Scorched Lands to the Sea. All shall fear us, the Little ones and the Elders alike, and the North will be ours!"  
  
A roar of approval rose up to me, and contained within it was centuries of anger and bloodlust, and a fierce thirst to prove ourselves to the Master, who once served the Great one. We had spoken, and we would not stop until all our enemies had been routed from the North. Our howls echoed out over the Withered Lands. Perhaps even the Elders in the Black Forest heard us. If they did, then certaintly we made their blood run cold.  
  
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It has been years since that day, but still we have not triumphed. To be sure, the Westerners and the Elders have finally become aware of us, and we have defeated them time after time, but never by enough. We are close, though. We must be, because the Master has sent messages of praise, and bestowed upon us new gifts. And new work. The Masters plans are reaching their climax, and he is ready to spring his trap on the small bands of his enemies that remain. The last remnants of the Westerners and the Elders will soon have been vanquished forever.   
  
So now there is an important message for us. One of the Little ones has incurred the wrath of the Master, and he tells us that we must destroy him at all costs. He did not say, but from the way his Messenger spoke, we believe it is very essential to the fulfillment of his plans, and far more important than he seems willing to reveal. We are honored to be entrusted with such an important mission. We do not care what it is the Master seeks from the Little one. It is for the work of the Master that we live, and we do not pry into his secrets.  
  
Now we have searched the long width of the North, from the Icebay to the the Scorched Lands, even coming nigh to the Cloven Valley of the Star-son, but to no avail. We believe that the Little one is cowering in one of the hidden dwellings of the Elders, where we cannot go. But he cannot stay there forever. He must emerge someday, and when he does, we will be ready.  
  
We had sent out scouts in every direction. Finally, one group returned. They had been sent past the Mountains of Mist where the Goblins dwell, close even to the Star-son's hidden valley. The Little one had been in hiding there, but at last he had emerged. For weeks, we had seen that the Elders were stirring. Many small parties had come from the Cloven Valley, scouting out the land just as we had done.Two of our deadliest foes, the children of the Star-son, had passed over the Mountains, far into the South, but we had hindered none. For we too were preparing.  
  
Why the Little one, whose people have always been weak, should choose to travel the Wild-lands in Winter, we know not. But we are not hindered by the cold. We were bred in the Hells of Iron far in the North, long ago. We are made for the Winter months. There was, however, news that was less good. Along with six others, the Lord of the northern Westerners and the Wanderer travel with him. We do not fear the Westerner, for he fears us, but the Wanderer has oftenproved a deadly and ruthless foe, and we do not like him. It will require more of us than we thought if we must face him. But if we were to slay the Wanderer, the Master would be pleased indeed.  
  
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We have come far South, further than a pack this large has done for long years. We have brought with us nearly as large a host as were assembled at the Battle of the Dragon-Mountain, although the greater part of us are some distance away, awaiting our triumphant return, and are merely there in the unlikely chance that we will need reinforcing. It is unlikely, but the Wanderer is a deadly foe.  
  
The small company that is our prey moves slowly. We will have no trouble catching up with them, so we are safe in letting them become aware of our presence. So now we begin to howl. Our song rides the wind, mingling with it, yet apart. The exultant music must strike terror into the hearts of our prey.  
  
We surround the clearing where our enemy cowers. I have never encountered the Wanderer before, but his power penetrates into the very elements from which it is drawn. If he had chosen to use his Power for himself instead of the Guardians, he would be a rival to even the Master.But he did not, and now he will know what it is to die.  
  
The lord of the Westerners, if he can be so called, is another threat, though less so. He is skilled, and deadly, yet if our records are true, he has faced Wolves but few times in his long life. The others in this small pack are almost no threat at all. An Elder is there, from the Black Forest, and one of the Deep Folk, a Dwarf. There is a Man, who looks to be from the South, and four of the Little ones. We shall defeat them easily, and hold a great feast in celebration.  
  
I deploy us into groups. The largest shall go for the Wanderer. Now we emerge, to do the great work of the Master. The enemy has made camp in a ring of stones encircling the top of a small hill, I suppose in some hope of defending themselves. They should spare themselves the effort. We shall defeat them easily.  
  
My lieutenant emerges first. He howls in challenge. The Wanderer hurls words at him, but they are merely threats, meaningless and empty. Then he springs. But even before he lands, he falls, the Elder's arrow in his throat. I snarl softly, signalling a reatreat. But we will be back soon to avenge him.  
  
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Now I send out scouts to find the pack that awaits out return. I am not afraid that we will be defeated by this small pack, but it is better to completly defeat them with an overwhelming force than to come back with over-heavy losses.  
  
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Hours later, we are ready. We surround the hillock completly, offering them no chance of escape. When all is ready, we attack. We howl in challenge, and in anger. It is time to avenge our fallen.  
  
The enemy, though taken at unawares in the dead of night, has suprisingly swift reactions. The Wanderer orders his companions to fling fuel on the fire. The Men take down many of our front line with their great broadswords. and the Dwarf hews many with his axe. The Little ones stand in a small circle, back-to-back. They are no threat, and besides, the Master has ordered that they not be harmed, but brought to his Messenger. The Wanderer does nothing as of yet. The greatest threat is, suprisingly, the Elder. His hands fly faster than the eye can see, and they seem to let loose an endless stream of arrows.  
  
But now the Wanderer stands. He seems to grow in the wavering firelight. He lifts a burning branch and strides to meet us. We give back before him, on some primordial instinct we do not understand. He throws the blazing brand high in the air, and gives a command in the Ancient Tongue. It flares with a bright radiance, and the tree above him suddenly bursts into flame. The fire leaps from tree to tree, and the entire hill is now ablaze.  
  
But in the corner of my vision, a flash of fire speeds towards me. Suddenly I--  
  
  
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iOur great leader has fallen in battle. After his death we were forced to flee the field, but we escaped. Many of us fell in the Battle of the Running Fire, and we will avenge them. But now we must remain hidden and tend to our wounds --and face the wrath of the Master. We cannot fail him again. We have heard many starange tidings in the weeks since the Battle, but the strangest of all is the news that flies through the land that the Wanderer has fallen. We know not if we should believe it. If it is true, then we must say that we are glad. But we cannot be sure. Some days ago, we saw from afar a great fire on the peak of the White Mountain. The Power of the Wanderer runs still through the land. It is of the same kind, we see, as that of the Master. But whatever happens now in the lands to the South, it is none of our concern. The North is our home, and we will defend it as long as we remain here, but the concerns of the World are not ours. We are the Wolves, and we will always be a race apart./i  
  
  
The End  
  
  
A/N See the little blue button down there? 


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